


Should I Fast?

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [17]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 100 Fics in 100 Days, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>President Monroe doesn't trust men with families, so how will he react when he discovers that Tom Neville betrayed him to save Julia?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The torturer was feared, and perhaps sometimes respected, but he wasn't loved. Julia recognised more than one face among the men tramping their dirty boots over her antique rugs. None of them gave her an apologetic look or hesitated to tear the pages out of her books. 

As if she would hide evidence of guilt in her own house.

Julia sat on a hard chair, back defiantly straight, and clasped her hands neatly in her lap. Her fingers squeezed so tightly her bones ached, but nobody but her could tell that. She didn't know what was happening. They had taken Tom away, she didn't know where Jason was and nobody would tell what was happening. Since the militia still seemed to be in power, she assumed Monroe was still in power. Or perhaps Matheson had just reclaimed his position?

For once, she supposed, knowledge didn't matter. Neither man was known for their forgiveness of those who'd wronged them. 

'Mrs Neville,' a young guard, his soft face scored with deep scars down one side, said. 'You have to come with me.'

'Where?'

He gripped her elbow and pulled her briskly to her feet. In her heels she was taller than him. It was a small victory. 'You'll find out.' He marched her out the front door of her own nice – she could hear the curtains twitching up and down the street. Her mouth firmed and she lifted her chin. Let them look. 

A black carriage was waiting on the drive. The ones that came to take insurgents away and never bring them back. Julia supposed there was a certain poetic justice to that, as often as she had used them to remove opponents from the field.

She waited to be lifted in, like Cinderella on the way to the ball, and hoped that Jason had the sense to run. He wouldn't though; he was too like his father. 

Tom was waiting for in Independence Hall, standing stiff and straight between two guards. Usually, she'd be careful of his position and image. Tonight she didn't care. She ran over and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

He couldn't hug her back, his arms shackled like a criminal, but he breathed in the smell of her and let her cling to him till her knees stopped trembling. 'It will be ok,' he promised her. 'Monroe will understand.'

'Will he?' a cold voice said.

Julia jerked away from Tom as Monroe strode into the room, blood drying in a patchy smear across his cheek. He threw his sword into the desk with a jerky, angry movement and turned to glare at them. His eyes were like glass.

'You cost me,' he said. 'Miles escaped, Rachel is gone and with her all her knowledge and even my hostages have flown the coop. I look like a fool.'

'I'm sorry,' Tom said, tucking his chin. He looked the picture of a good subordinate, but his voice was shaky with fury. 'I wanted Matheson dead.'

Monroe's lips twitched into a sneer. 'And so do I,' he said. 

That was...unexpected, Julia registered with a twitch of her eyebrow.

Monroe wasn't just singing from a different hymn sheet in this, it was a while new book. The rule had always been to take Matheson alive, the 'or else' a silent, aim-spoiling threat. Any rebel that wanted to be long-lived just needed to dye their hair brown and do their best to look like a scruffy alcoholic. Not a bullet would go near them.

The panicking, plotty bit of her mind tried to seize on the change as leverage, but she squashed it down. The situation was too precarious and you never showed your cards till you knew what game you were playing.

Luckily, Monroe didn't seem to expect them to contribute to the conversation. He poured himself a glass of cheap whiskey and tossed it back, lips twitching as the bite hit him. Then he had another.

'I should have you killed,' he said conversationally, walking over to look out the window. 'I'd kill anyone else who let me down this badly.'

Julia reached out blindly for Tom's hand, clutching his fingers desperately. Her hands were so cold that his felt hot.

'I'd deserve it,' Tom said stoically. 'But sir, my family-'

'Yes,' Monroe interrupted, turning to stare at them. 'Your precious family. How lucky you are to have kept them safe this long, Major Neville. But then, you are a good soldier. Or were, until today.'

'There's no one more loyal to you than my husband, General Matheson,' Julia insisted.

Monroe gave her that glacial stare. 'More loyal than you, Julia? Should I doubt you then? Were you and Miles in cahoots, he always did have an inexplicable way with housewives.'

'Julia had nothing to do with this,' Tom said, stiffening. 'She would have let Matheson slit her throat rather than betray you.'

That hadn't been quite her reasoning.

'So,' Monroe said. 'We're back to you as the weak link, aren't we? That leaves me in a dilemma, Tom. I owe you my life for uncovering Rachel Matheson's plot; the Republic likely owes you its life for fetching the leverage to convince her to co-operate. Yet by allowing Miles to escape, you put all that in jeopardy.' His face twisted in fury, red blotching his cheeks. He snatched up half-empty decanter of whiskey and hurled it their feet, crystal shattering on the tiles. 'Do you FUCKING understand that?'

Tom had stepped in front of Julia, shielding her. She could see the fury in the tight line of his shoulders. Not now, she thought, squeezing his fingers and hoping he understood, not while he expects it.

'I make no excuses, General,' Tom said.

'Good.' Monroe muttered, rubbing his cheek sand looking away. 'Good, because I will accept none. If you want forgiveness, I don't want excuses or apologies or explanations. I just want the Mathesons' had on a pike outside the city gates. Do you understand me?'

'A second chance, General,' Tom said.

'Exactly,' Monroe said. 'And since I want you focused, I will take one worry from your shoulders, Major. While you are hunting Mathesons, I'll keep your lovely wife safe here in Independence Hall. She'll by my personal guest. A suite of rooms in the Hall has just become...unexpectedly...vacant.'

He paused and his voice was full of trip wires when he spoke again. 'Do we understand each other, Tom?'


	2. The Sword Devourth

Julia picked up a heavy silver brush from the rosewood vanity. Strands of pale gold hair were caught in the bristles, glinting the dim sunlight. The suite was full of Rachel Matheson's leavings – her notes on the desk, her smell on the cushions and doubtless her whining tears on the pillows. What it was short on were the creature comforts that Julia was used to – wine, little luxuries, her own clothes.

In a burst of petty irritation Julia threw the brush at the wall, chipping the plaster. It didn't make her feel any better, so she wrenched the mirror off the table and smashed it against the ground. Glass shattered and dropped onto the floor, crunching under her feet as she stamped over to the windows. She twisted her hands in the heavy burgundy velvet curtains, nap rough against her palms, and yanked until the came down round her in a sloughing, dusty pile. 

Breathless and shaking, Julia kicked her way out of the tangle of fabric and stomped over to the bed. She sat down, the old frame creaking, and buried her face in her hands. The temper tantrum hadn't helped – it never did – and now she had a sick headache from adding adrenaline to the cocktail of exhaustion and worry she'd already been carrying around.

Not fear. She wouldn't give Miles Matheson the satisfaction.

Julia rubbed her fingertips against the aching bones of her skull. She wanted a cup of honey-sweetened tea and her own bed, she wanted to go home and most of all she wanted Tom. She wasn't going to get any of them. Kicking off her shoes she curled up on another woman's bed, in another woman's prison and stubbornly didn't cry herself to sleep.

The morning sun on her face woke her up. She groaned and threw her arm over her eyes. This is why she didn't have tantrums, she always ended up having to tidy up after them herself. The sun wasn't going away. Julia sighed and rolled over, propping herself up on her elbow and yelping in shock as she saw General Monroe sitting on the end of the bed.

'Good morning, Julia,' he said, tilting his head. 'I see you've made yourself at home.'

She scrambled up the bed, bare feet kicking at the blankets, until she was squashed against the pillows. Her heart hammered against the inside of her chest. 

'What are you doing?' 

He brushed a bit of fluff from his sleeve and gave a mild, disarming smile. 'You're my guest, Julia. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.'

She pulled her knees up to her chest and brushed her hair back from her face, trying to find her composure. It was easier when she was more...put together. She managed a smile.

'I'd be more comfortable at home.'

He glanced around at the ruin of velvet and glass on the floor, then back at Julia. 'My hospitality not up to your standards, Julia?'

The conversational minefield was actually calming Julia down. It was a familiar game - imply and block, infer and deflect - although one she usually avoided playing with Monroe. He was too unpredictable, and too rash in doling out punishments. 

'I'm sorry, General,' she said, spreading her hands helplessly and adding a nervous little smile. 'Of course I appreciate your hospitality. You concern for my well-being, for all of us, is always heartening. It would just be comforting to be in a familiar space.'

Monroe braced his arm on his thigh, fitted jacket tugging tight across his shoulder, and heard out attentively. He stood up as she finished and walked around the bed, curling his fingers through her hair.

'That's very brave,' he said, rubbing his thumb over the captured strands thoughtfully. 'After your ordeal at Matheson's hands, however, I think you'd safer here, close to me. Where I can take care of you – since Tom can't.'

She stiffened. 'My husband has always taken care of me and our son.'

'Hmm,' Bass said, seemingly engrossed in her hair. 'Yet he didn't protect you from Miles – and he can't protect you from me.'

Julia slanted a side-long look at him from under her lashes. 'I'm a loyal citizen of the Republic, General Monroe. Why would I have to fear from you?'

He tucked her hair behind her ear and let his knuckles brush down her throat, a lazy caress that made her flinch. Monroe leant in to whisper against her bared ear, lips brushing her skin.

'Nothing, but a man should be able to protect what's his.'

Julia took a quick breath and pulled her lips back in a tight, nasty smile. 'He wouldn't have needed to protect me, if you'd killed Matheson when you should have.'

The hand at her throat turned into a hand around her throat. Not squeezing, but tight. His thumb pressed under her chin, forcing her to look around at him. 'You're smarter than that, Julia.'  
She swallowed hard, tendons working against his grip. Tantrums, never ended well. She dipped her lashes remorsefully, 'My apologies, General. It's been a trying week – first my son was being sent to California and then Miles Matheson had a sword to my throat. Just about where your fingers are.'

Warm, dry lips pressed against her cheek. She could feel the scrape of his stubble against her skin.

'I spared your son, and your husband, even though they betrayed me,' he said. 'You'd think you'd be grateful, Julia. You'd think you'd appreciate my restraint.'

She caught his wrist, wrapping her fingers around the heavy flex of bone and muscle. 'General, you have your choice of beautiful, young women, who would all be very grateful for your attention and restraint.'

'Restraint isn't usually the word they use,' he said. A hand slid up her stockinged leg, ruching her skirt up around her thigh. She clenched her knees together, knuckles pressing against her muscles. 'Grateful, yes. Come have breakfast, Julia. I have coffee.'

He got up, tugging his jacket straight, and walked around the end of the bed. Julia pushed her skirts down, stretching the hem down to her knees. Monroe paused as a bit of mirror crunched underfoot and regarded the destruction.

'I'll have the maids clean this up,' he said. 'I don't expect it to happen again. I'm always admired your pragmatism, so don't disappoint me now. This is your new home.'


	3. Chapter 3

'Play it, Sam. Play “As Time Goes By”,' Ingrid Bergman said, her larger than life image projected on the wall of Independence Hall. The crowds gathered on the grounds to see the first film in 15 years gasped and laughed with a mixture of nostalgia (the over-20s) and awe (the under-20s). Vendors with pots of popcorn and something that passed for hot-dogs hawked their goods from group to group.

Up on a raised dias with the other officers and their families, Julia divided her attention between Rick and Ilsa and the audience, weighing their reaction against her expectations. It was going well. There had been a few troublemakers early on, but the guards had quietly removed them.

Cool fingers tapped Julia's hand, catching her attention, and she glanced sideways to Monroe. He leant on the arm of his chair, inclining his head towards her. 'When you convinced me this would be worth my while,' he murmured. 'I was hoping it would be something with explosions.'

The droll complaint surprised a smile out of Julia. Sometimes she forgot that Bass could be charming. 'I worried that might over-excite those new to the experience,' she whispered back. 'Besides, Casablanca is a classic and the people love it. I told you, bread and circuses. Remind them that getting the power back doesn't only benefit you.'

Not to mention making sure the word was discreetly spread that it was Julia Neville behind the evening treat. A reputation for generosity couldn't hurt.

A finger stroked down the back of Julia's hand in a far too familiar caress. She stiffened and tried to withdraw, but Monroe just tightened his grip. Making a scene would only draw more attention, so Julia just clenched her jaw and let her hand go limp in his. He drew circles around her wrist-bone with his thumb.

'Have you heard from Tom?' he asked.

Julia bit her lip, old worries sliding under her skin. 'Not this week.'

Monroe leant his elbow on the arm of her chair, bumping his shoulder against hers. 'Last I heard, he was fine. Up near Boston.'

Her breath scratched in her throat. She knew a game when she saw one, he wanted her to ask. It would put her in his debt. She asked anyhow.

'Jason?'

'Your son?' Monroe said. 'Well enough. Tom rarely speaks of him. A shame, he seemed like the sort of young man who'd go far in the militia. With the proper backing.'

He gave her knuckles a quick, teasing kiss before giving her hand back. Julia tucked them in her lap and stared at the projected film without seeing a scene of it. For years it had irritated her that Monroe treated her like Tom's helpmeet, useless beyond checking the roast venison was ready, but she preferred that to this.

Monroe had far too good an idea of her weak spots. Although, she corrected herself bracingly, working out a mother cared for her son was not that perceptive. 

The brush of his finger over her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear, jarred her out of her reverie just as Humphrey Bogart stood on the airfield. 'Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow-' he said.

'I wouldn't have let her go,' Monroe remarked. 'Not when it would be so easy to get rid of him.'

'That would be a terrible film,' Julia said. People were glancing their way and muttering behind their hands. Gossip – she loved it as a tool, but not when it was aimed at her.

'But everyone loves a happy ending.'


End file.
